Oh my God, this is beautiful and so intense and lovely; it has that sort of feverish, delirious, drifting air that is so exactly right for Lavinia's perspective in this circumstance, and I just love how vivid Mary is, and how strong Lavinia is, the way it contrasts with her current physical weakness, and how Mary brings that strength out in her, and augh, augh, augh, you have to write about them forever!

And, here, these are my notes I had to take while I read because I kept getting too overwhelmed not to caps lock at you:

It is not large. It does not rival the brightness of the sun that filters through the window, it barely shows her teeth; but she is Mary and you would not expect anything more, not for you. And then Mary shifts closer in her chair. You see her eyes. They are warm. Like a hot water bottle to curl against in the middle of January; like a fire to read against; like coming home from a downpour.

YOU HAVE BLOODY KILLED ME.

Her voice carries you to Verona, to Crete, to India, to the lost palace of Kubla Kahn. But she is beside you as you dream and so you are not afraid.

LIKE I'M REALLY DEAD FROM BEAUTY.

No, you have a feeling it is not what one would say.

OH, LAVINIA, I LOVE YOU.

With legs shaking from disuse and a hand on the wall to balance you slowly remember the path to Mary's room.

MY HEART.

That whole last paragraph! That last line! I just! AM DEAD.